The Sunlandic Twins
by ThroughTheNeedle'sEye
Summary: It's that exact bizarre way of communication that will only ever be permissible behind closed doors. He wants to say no, but he's also strangely aware of the dark desire to let her have her way with him. She knows it. She knows him too well.
1. Requiem for OMM2

The Sunlandic Twins

"How many others?"

"I assure you, Holly J., numbers aren't really important." He can hear her breathe a frustrated sigh into the receiver, and he smiles, knowing her perseverance will keep working on him in an attempt to extract secrets– or facts, rather– about his past. "It isn't important, really."

"I will find out one day. You'll let it slip."

"Okay." He'd never been a phone talker up to that point mainly because there was something ancient and banal about talking on the telephone. Personally, Declan believed that if a message could be texted, why waste the time dialing when an answer would be received in seconds at a speed much faster than that of a telephone call? It was this matter of logic with which Holly J disagreed. She's been pushing him into new proclivities yet he's still proudly managed to stand by his belief that the world can be conquered on his iPhone, an object which he has used to make only four telephone calls on this month alone, and that includes this current conversation.

"It's something about you, and I think it's important that I know it, Declan."

"Tell me something about you."

"We've already talked about me... You've yet to disclose anything important or memorable about yourself." Without hesitation, she hears his laugh on the other end and smiles a little. "What?"

"You're very funny; I'm far from forgettable, Holly J." There are paradoxes all over the place: The unification of two steadfast individuals is a concept similar to fighting fire with fire. Holly J and Declan are pushers– more like pissers– and they'll work on each other, and eventually, Holly J expects to crack the intimacy code on him, but if it isn't today, fine. There's always tomorrow. _Always. _It's only logical to assume that the Trend of Perseverance will flow in the opposite direction, and in her case, timing is a nonissue because unlike Declan, Holly J possesses ladylike grace and patience.

"Listen, I gotta go bullshit my way through this Physics assignment."

"You haven't finished yet? It's already ten o'clock."

"It's a breeze. Do you want a ride to school tomorrow?" She thinks for a second, twisting her limp hair around her index finger.

"That's okay. I'll just meet you there," she says, as if she's holding back, but he doesn't question it. Then saying goodbye, they hang up. Declan's glance lingers on his phone for a second or two, and in milliseconds, the thought of calling her back just to hear her voice again crosses his mind, but he checks it as his eyes shift over to the pile of books that have been sitting on his desk since three this afternoon. Getting up, he stretches, turning on his heel, and is greeted by the lazy, watchful eye of his sister, Fiona. She comes in without invitation, in her usual fashion, and lounges on his perfectly made bed.

"Were you eavesdropping again," he says walking out and across the hall to the bathroom. After a few minutes, he returns, sitting at the desk waiting for her reply. She takes her time by flipping through Declan's current read, puts it down– folding her hands– , and looks over at him.

"Yes, I was. And you know what I think?"

"The proper question is do I _want_ to know what you think?" Confused by his segway, she furrows her brow, turns her head to the side, then shrugs, asking her own silent question with gestures which causes Declan to put down his phone, giving his full attention. "I'm sorry. What do you think?"

"Holly J could be good for you." He opens his mouth to add something, but closes it because he's unsure of exactly what to say. The angle at which Fiona has approached strikes a confused chord within him, making him question the genuine nature of her comment mainly because her opinion was unsolicited. The red flag for Declan is naturally going to go up. It's often that way, the family ethos. The familial air is sometimes such a sickening slope, that that line between facing each member from the actual front or theoretical front(with one's one back turned toward oncoming danger, thinking it's the actual front) blurs completely. Adding to this daunting dynamic is the special relationship reserved only for siblings who have simultaneously shared the womb. There is no doubt this special bond uniting Declan and Fiona is present, the thing that disturbs him the most, however, is how quickly the whole thing can blossom or sour between them, making the relationship at times uncouth. Fiona Coyne, his twin sister, his best friend, his enemy, his confidante. His enemy...

"What are you getting at, Fi?"

"Don't sound so suspicious. I'm happy for you. I like her." She slides off the bed and saunters out of the room with a small, taunting smile. He studies her on her way out. More often than not, he can sense when there is more to her mocking mannerisms, but at this moment despite this nagging feeling pulling him in the other direction, he forces himself to believe that her words are in fact truth, even if the method of presentation suggests otherwise. "Besides," she says, poking her head back in, "I just wanted to get a good look at you myself."

"Why?" She knows she's getting to him. The mystery of round about communication has always been Declan's signature move and it annoys him to no end when other people try to copy his style. "What do you mean get a good look at me?"

"Nothing, nothing." In her head, she counts down the seconds. 

* * *

He comes rushing out of his room like she expected and then some; he roughly grabs her by the wrists, dragging her to the floor and with a taunting look of contempt, pins her there.

"Get off me! I'm serious, you're hurting me."

"Tell me what you were going to say."

"I wasn't going to say anything, taunting or otherwise. I swear!" He doesn't believe her and strikes with the offensive, clearing his throat and digs deep for mucous with which to torment her. "Declan, you better not!"

"Declan, get off of your sister." Their mother stands with stern defiance and watches as they pick themselves up. "Fiona, get ready for bed. I need to talk to you, young man." She motions for his bedroom, and pretends to not notice the silent jeers and improper gestures they exchange with one another as they disperse.

He sits on the bed and quietly listens to the overdone clichéd litany performed by every parent going out of town. It's not like they haven't done this before: No parties, no friends staying over, go to bed on time, no going out on school nights, do your homework, turn off the stove(as if they do their own cooking...), the list really does go on and on and on, but she's added something else that makes his ears perk up.

"And no visits from Holly J."

"What? Why? She's my girlfriend."

"Yes, I understand that, Declan, but I just don't think it to be proper at this time. After that incident at the award ceremony, I think you two shouldn't be hanging out alone for awhile." Ah, the thing about parents– no, any authority figure really– is that they pretend not to understand the psyche of a young person. Like, by some grace of a higher power, they can anticipate the future actions of whom they are trying to control. Well, one thing Declan understands fully, and it's something of which they refuse to acknowledge, is that kids will always do what they want. It's as simple as that. And also that there is temptation in everything and they'll try and pursue it.

Parents may think they remember what it's like to be young, but with all the static of children, work, and bills, they've learned to train their minds into thinking they have some control because of their title, the fact that they gave said child life, and that they know their children almost like an omniscient being knows his most complex creation. They think they're God when really they're Jacks of no trade, stupidly believing their kids will follow the rules. Parents try to deter the fun, yet they present a challenge to their kids every time they tell them "no". Declan was and still is the child who does the opposite of what he's told as a way to make a statement, and because they're, more often then not, more fun than legitimate activities.

"You don't trust her?"

"I do not." She continues on the same track, and he nods, fully aware that he will probably break every rule while his father, her husband, is out of the country and while she and Fiona are away. The catch is he won't get caught. He rarely ever gets caught. He will have Holly J over, and he doesn't care. Still, his parents are smart: "Not only do I not trust Holly J, I don't trust you."

"Fair enough." His mother crosses to the door, thinking he will surely do what he wants. Turning back, she lovingly looks at him with a soft smile.

"Try... to be good. Please. We'll only be gone for a week."

"Alright, mom. I promise." He rolls his eyes at her and his yet to be finished homework.

*

There truly is something disturbing the way the night seems to drone on or complete itself in what feels like an hour. The way the time plays tricks on the teenage mind is one of the most paradoxical experiences of being young. What with the raging hormones, endless conversations or other outings with friends, stupid projects and copious amounts of homework, along with nights where parties last until five, then everybody crashes, and wakes up at ten with boundless energy boggles the mind. When bodies can carry on after all of that, no wonder teenagers think they're truly invincible. Then there are nights one actually looks forward to the legitimate eight hours of repose and it ends up feeling like two.

The idiotically shrill sound Declan set as the alarm on his phone serves its purpose at being just obnoxious enough to jar him awake every single morning. Some days, he does feel rested and is quick to silence the noise, but today, he grimaces and wakes himself almost simultaneously with the action of the alarm. His hand comes shooting out of the depths of his sheets and comforter. His hair is ruffled as if it was blown by the wind and he presses– almost slams– his finger on the silence button, thus starting the day with an annoyed snare and a curling lip.

He drags himself to the bathroom, where Fiona is already dressed and fixing her makeup. She's forever been a morning person, and Declan suspects she never really sleeps. She's a sweet girl, but he also is suspicious of how much alike they may be in the areas of people perception. Like she has some secret aspirations of mind-fucking others, but it's only in mind, never acted upon while Declan has liberally taken the freedom to say and do as he pleases. He reaches for his toothbrush and she steps aside in order to give him room to reach. In the mirror, her eye catches the curled edge of his mouth and the look of it bothers her a little bit. Some mornings, he's absolutely dreadful while other times, he can be quite attentive and stimulating. True, there isn't enough time to have in-depth conversation, but every once in awhile, they exchange a few good ideas, and words, and they're surprisingly full for the approximate twenty minutes allotted before going to school. Today, however, is not a good time to strike up anything.

It's that kind of insolent teenage entitlement she never employed; the "don't even look at me. I just woke up"-ness. Some people can get away with operating like that, but Fiona's aware that it's a color that simply does not flatter her in any way, shape, or form. With one last deft sweep of the liquid eyeliner brush, she caps it, and walks out of the bathroom.

"I'll be downstairs. Hurry up."

The drive every morning is usually quiet save for the radio. The twins hardly ever listen to stations other than _NPR_ over XM Radio. Declan is careful enough at the wheel, very rarely ever taking liberties with the BMW or making power moves on the road. This kind of attentive unwillingness to own up to the fact that he actually has a heart are subtle characteristics that Fiona likes to tally in her head. She knows her brother has an image to maintain, so she respectfully pays him back in kind by also rarely mentioning these weak points in his stonewall image.

The twins lead two different lives at school. In recent weeks, Declan has started to diverge from the loner path and began spending his school days and an occasional Saturday evening with Sav Bhandari, Anya, and that crowd which was optimal opportunity, in some ways, to stir preliminary Holly J interactions. And as the weeks continue to pass, their friendship has steadily grown and Fiona's witnessed that they've been exchanging secrets. The subjects with which they're concerning themselves are still unknown to her and because of this, she can't quite decide yet if this is an urgent matter she should worry about. This might be, rather, her way of riding the euphoria she gets from watching others socialize and she might also be anticipating some big _thing_ happening. Declan's involvement with Holly J has her mentally hanging off the edge of her seat, and she's waiting to see the latest scandal because these high school things– the flings– , they never last and now that it involves her brother, she feels as if she possesses a heightened sense of social awareness around Degrassi. But this current venture– she won't ever call or believe it to be a relationship– has left her locked out and distanced from Declan, who's refusing to disclose the details of this situation.

It kills her, knowing nothing, so she teases him, which may or may not be beneficial to her cause. She doesn't care either way whether it spills out of him in a desperate attempt to get her to stop her verbal enigmas or if he calmly sits her down, like he used to, and gives her a psychoanalytic, semidetached account of events, yet still from his point-of-view. She'll really be happy with the latter, but if need be, and this is need be, she must employ the first tactic. Fiona Coyne refuses to be locked out of her brother's mental house.

"Do you have anything after school?"

"What?"

"Do you have a meeting or something after school?" She sighs, silently jabbed by an inquiry like this.

"No. You know I don't..."

"I'm staying after school to help Holly J audition prospects for Café Cabaret."

"Café Cabaret?" He stands there nodding his head, looking down at his cell phone. "So what am I supposed to do while you sniff Holly J's ass?" Immediately, he looks up, blinks only once, then narrows his eyes a little.

"You know," he says, slinging his bag over his shoulder, "you should really join some extracurriculars or something. Or get some friends... I'm beginning to get tired of babysitting you." He walks by her out of the parking lot to the front steps, where his porcelain princess Holly J waits for him. She watches, detached from her jealousy, as they walk inside. Fiona knows how good it must be to have someone to face the day with, but she can't help but foster the comforting feeling of believing that she is above real social connection.


	2. I Was Never Young

2. I Was Never Young

The strangest things happen during those in between hours. Between the structure of schooldays then after school activities, Holly J rarely ever has time to settle into the unfamiliar path of randomosity, but these days, she taking more time to do exactly just that. Having a boyfriend like Declan is, as trite as this is going to sound, different than any other boy she's dated. Everything about him is show from the BMW to the nice clothes to the smooth way words seem to roll off his tongue and into some unsuspecting girl's ear. She takes complete comfort in the fact that ever one of them up till now has been nothing to him. He mostly definitely denied it later, but he poured his heart out on the recording studio intercom. In a way, she was playing him by playing into his trap, the pursuit thing, but she's also in denial with herself about some origins of some of her feelings. What started out as a game of sorts turned into something with potential depth. The best laid plans of mice and men is how she figures it.

"Declan, Mom wants to know where you put her copy of _The Holy Terrors_." He looks up, laying the book down in his lap and searches his mind for a memory of where he put it.

"Hold on," he says to Holly J and gets up, leaving the room. His room to her is the inner sanctum. By just being present, she feels like an intruder in part because the time she was in company with his mother, she lost her privilege to have the keys to Degrassi. Rightfully so, and not to mention that on top of that, prior to their trespassing incident, the curtain literally went up on her and Declan– Holly J in her bra– and their relationship almost ended there as well. There's been more of a verbal communication between them and most of time, she's just asking him questions about his life, about his feelings, his opinions, anything.

*

That is the saving grace of a woman. Holly J grew a lot from her experience with Blue. In some way, she wants to do the same thing to Declan, but recapture it and make it a good thing. There's nothing fair about picking, choosing, or altering parts of a person you like. In order to get anything healthy, one must work for it, to obtain or maintain it. She's spent a semester revamping herself, and for the first time in a real long time, she's satisfied with life because she achieved so much.

This is where he sleeps and does homework, she can see it by the books. Walking over to the desk, she pulls out the chair and sits, opening a drawer. Her gaze inside it lasts only for a few seconds, for she was ready to move onto something else when she noticed, only after seeing them, that there were several journals, leather bound and worn, completely devoid of vibrancy that graces anything new. She closes the drawer and stands just as Declan reenters, carrying a tray with two cups of coffee.

He stops, still holding the tray, and stares at her then at the desk.

"Going through my stuff?" He's kidding, of course, but there is also a guarded, heavy aspect to it as well. She'd have to know him well enough to be able to sense. No one can sense it except Fiona. Holly J's quick on top of everything else, and she only grasps the first layer of his tone.

"I was just exercising my investigatory powers as _la presidenta_ of Degrassi," she says, walking over to him and his smile grows as he looks down at her. Continuing to the desk, he sets down the tray and turns around with his hands folded behind his back.

"This raises two questions: Your jurisdiction, it encompasses my house? But before that, you, like the president of the United States, have investigatory powers to exercise?"

"Yes," she starts, taking his hand, "and technically, Canada is part of the Americas– so I would say, sure I have them too." This creature before him is not exactly on his level of round about-speak, but she definitely comes closer than all the others... Except Sophia. Sophia is in a class of her own. No one talks about her.

Holly J has pleasing features and a mind on top of everything else. Pretty girls are a literally a dime a dozen to him. They come from all over just to talk to him, thinking they're more unique than last one, but it's all a lie. If he wanted someone easy, he would have stayed with Trish or whatever her name is; when he's done, they cease to exist. Holly J meets his appearance qualities, but her mind is what seals the deal for him.

Sordid past or not, he can see– and is attracted– to her new heart or the heart that was always there. It's hot either way and he doesn't care. Their bodies are kind of close now and he surveys her with a concentrating eye and a smile as he thinks of something to say. Veering his eyes off to the right, he suddenly feels the twinge of involuntary desire in his pants, but he shows no reaction to it. He acknowledges and moves on, still thinking.

"I highly doubt that you can assume or inherit powers because of a technicality."

"Well, as the president of Degrassi, I don't appreciate any close scrutinization of my job or what it entails." He nods, closely scrutinizing her chest.

"Perfect," he says to himself in regards to her breasts, and again she doesn't get it.

"What's perfect?"

"You've mastered the art of fast talking quite well. You should consult my father. Do you need a summer job?" They laugh, both of them unaware of Fiona's listening at the door. She sees nothing, but really, she doesn't need to see anything to pick up the undertone. Eyes are fleeting that way. When you know those your subjects quite well, sight and visuals complicate things. Everything gets real busy. This is an easy job. Declan's her brother and Holly J, ex cheerleader/mean girl, isn't hard to figure out. There probably isn't that much to her anyway.

Holly J is someone she's never communicated with and Fiona considers her as a buffer. This continual session of eavesdropping is research for her own social experiment. In some ways, she's actively out there with the rest of the world, but the real work takes place at home, or what she endearingly likes to refer to it as the inner sanctum. Declan's little friends have been infiltrating his inner sanctum, learning his secrets and she will not surrender this obsession until she extracts all the information she can for Declan insists on keeping her out.

Holly J walks past him to the desk just as he was about to lean in to kiss her, and she sits down again.

"It is tea time?"

"Of course not. Coffee." He hands her a cup then takes the other for himself. They stare at each other for a moment, then it occurs to Holly J that he's waiting to see her reaction to the warm drink. Taking a sip, she immediately feels the caffeine kicks its way into action and after the fatigue of the day, she's reawakened with wide eyes and everything.

"Wow."

"Yeah. It's good, right," he says, bringing his cup to his mouth. "You know what the French call a serving size such as this? _Une demi tasse du café."_ These words roll off his tongue and one is able to hear the pride he takes in being so cultured. In the hall, Fiona rolls her eyes. His attempts at continuing to woo her are too rich. She can't decide what's more revolting: his desperation to solidify something– that she is sure of. The something is still a mystery– or the richness of their banter. It might cause her to go into diabetic shock. They... He really doesn't see the futility of all this, or all these distractions. He's walking around with his eyes closed... No. He's walking around in pitch darkness with his eyes open. Either or. She rolls her eyes once more and turns to go back to her hole.

Because of this poor attitude, Fiona will always be left with half the story, she'll always be leaving when things start leading to what she's so hellbent on finding out. Patience truly is a virtue.

"That's very interesting." Looking closely at him now, she's sees a speck of worry in his eyes. "Are you okay?" If this was a Shakespearean tragedy, Declan's sure that this is where the rising action would be inserted. Naturally, he's the hero– tragic hero– and there's a twist. He has been shown no prophesy, no supernatural connection referencing anything, but his whole being keeps hinting at fatalism lately. This person in his life has completely permeated his subconscious. He loves and hates what it's doing to him simultaneously, he's completely aroused and disgusted because he thinks he's surrendering his power over or abandoning it for once. The kicker: he's doing it freely or willingly under her spell, he can't tell, but he's scared. He's already done this before.

This is the rising action, because letting her know could take them to the end. The end of their relationship? Possibly, but he actually doubts that. It's just theoretical; an end of some kind.

"You... scare me a little bit. I'm scared of this, how serious this could be or is." She puts down her mug, thinking, and in this moment, he can't read her. The sweat beads on his neck. Declan's a black belt in mental martial arts, but when it comes to displays of genuine feelings and he can't anticipate the outcome they may have, he shuts down. As perfect as he acts, it's just a fallacy. Complete fallacy.

"You scare me too."

"How can I cure this?" Instead of answering, she gets up and shuts the door and returns to the desk, then thinks for a moment with her eye on him. She crosses her legs with a shrug as she debates with herself in mind.

"Do something crazy."

"Um– "

"I feel like the only way we can ever truly be comfortable with each other is to... push the envelope in some way. It's clear that you're a little more insecure about this than I am." Upon hearing her matter of fact tone, Declan's lip involuntarily juts out in thought, almost like he's pouting, causing her to quickly add, "No offense."

His mind is racing. This shouldn't be this hard. Share something! he thinks, looking around the room. Like the protrusion of his lip, the thought of something concerning sex enters his mind as an option and he checks it, unsure of how she would react to his advance. Looking over at the bed, he picks up his favorite book at the moment: _The Twenty-Fifth Hour_ by David Benioff. _But isn't that the fall back thing? You share an excerpt from your favorite book or you play your favorite CD _his mind raced._ For once be honest in action. You could do that or continue lying to the world._

"This..." he begins with the book in hand. He stops, sighing, and continues, making the story up in his mind. "... is my favorite book ever. It's about this guy who's living his last day before he goes to jail." He pauses again and notes how disinterested she looks by all of this. "It's a very cool point of view. I mean, mostly it's just vomit from one character's point of view, but it's the... good kind." Unable to meet her eyes, he flips to the page he read last. He's ashamed. So is Holly J. She thought that at least for once, he would indulge her.

"Declan."

"Yeah?"

"Is that really what you want to show me?" He opens his mouth to say yes, but be begins slowly shaking his head weakly then with a little more conviction. She scoots closer in the chair toward the bed and places her hand on his knee. There's something so beautiful about the way she can make him central. He can see her beauty and diligent delicacy she's channeling right now and for the first time in a long time, he is very aroused by it. "You got to let me in... in order for this to work." Without warning, or second thought he scoots back against the pillows of his bed. He draws his knees up, resting his elbows on the them, and regards Holly J with a nervous eye. Both of them silent. Both watch one another to make sure what is or is about to happen is within their control. In a manner of seconds that actually feels like hours, in the stand off, Declan gives himself up.

Holly J watches as he brings down his legs a little spread in front of him and his hand reaches for to loosen his belt, then pushing them down to his ankles, he reaches inside his boxers for himself and examines, what she thinks might be shamefully, at his mild erection.

There are a ton of questions raised by an incident such as this, but the main one on which Declan seems to be focusing is the nature of desire. What is it about voyeurism that arouses the erogenous organs? Is the mind really excited by what it can see or what's left that it _cannot _see? He wonders, massaging himself whether his pulse beats with such intensity because he knows he could be turning her on or because it's just a kinky thing to do. Her reaction aside, he still finds desire at the heart of everything. Sex is the number one obsession of the teenage boy, and of course Declan has had it, he just finds that as time passes, however, the true nature of his arousal , or maybe even truth for that matter, has blurred. His front and theoretical front have clashed in all worlds and ways.

The simple way he works on himself is like working with delicate materials. When handled the wrong way, there is an overload, and the act of cleansing becomes a partial session of shameful defeat. His mind, so well trained in one way– manipulation– can completely fail him in other areas: servicing himself, making worthy connections, honesty. The list goes on and on, and while it might appear to have its up side, there are really more down sides at the end of everyday. Every day. So he has people doing his dirty work for him in the areas of sex and socializing; he's pretty adept at servicing himself when it comes to lying. The world does his dirty work. He can't even love himself! But right now in this moment, he is brandishing before Holly J a dirty truth, a form of socializing, and exposing himself in this vulnerable way for the first time in a year and a half. All this is a new high and a new low for Declan Coyne because he doesn't know what'll this act will get him in five minutes when he finishes. He is scared and out of control for the first time ever.

In a round, circular motion, Declan molds his penis. The short spasms continue to build and he knows every move is bringing him closer to the edge. His back rest rigidly against the headboard of his bed, the springs creak inside the mattress, he's listening closely to the air in an attempt to hear a part of her. She is silent and watching.

Despite all that, Declan's oddly reminded by his mother's favorite poem by Allen Ginsberg: Song. It delicately begins:

_The weight of the world is love_

_Under the burden of solitude,_

_under the burden of dissatisfaction_

_The weight, the weight we carry is love._

He had sneaked peaks of his parents' copies of _Howl_ as well as _Kaddish_, and through the many times of reading this very poem, it never occurred to him that the second to last stanza was talking about sex:

_The warm bodies shine together _

_in the darkness, the hand moves _

_to the center of the flesh, _

_the skin trembles in happiness _

_and the soul comes _

_joyful to the eye– _

In retrospect, he knew that it had, at best, a sexual undertone, but his body has been aching lately for something more, something outside of what he can latently learn, sense, or grow accustomed to. He masturbated many times for Sophia– his first love, his great lover, his only lover– in this fashion, thinking it was her way of seeing his soul, but it was her way of seeing the cracks so she could find the perfect weapon that would destroy him, heart and mind and all. He thought he was sharing a part of himself. The body, which is so sacred at those tender ages before sex, alcohol, and image enter the mind, was simpler. And now as he holds himself back, Declan wishes he was ten and less complicated.

It's not the beautifully formed look of Holly J's chest that pushes him forward to orgasm. It's shame and desire– with no sexual air– that takes him there. That feeling is virtually gone, and he accredits that to his wallowing self pity. Biology has taken over as he lets himself go. Then looking down at his member as twitches so violently that it seems for a moment as if the ensuing orgasm will be combatively explosive. He forces himself to watch her watch as the result of his stimulating himself beads from the tip and runs down his shaft.

*

His ears ring in the silence.

How am I writing? Please share a thought.


	3. Wraith Pinned to the Mist & Other Games

3. Wraith Pinned to the Mist(And Other Games)

Fiona plays a darling game of "Name That Tune" with herself on the piano in the family room. She has taken private piano lessons ever since she was seven years old and has blossomed her technique for playing the porcelain keys with deft confidence, concentration, and natural talent. Music, for her, has always been an uninvited guest she welcomes, but she absolutely refuses to pursue it as a career simply because there are other things she would like to do with her life even though she's quick to accept praise for her tear jerking rendition of Grieg's _Nocturne_ . Sadly, she will not be applying to any music conservatories next year, much to her mother's chagrin.

Half listening in the kitchen, the twins' mother is also mildly annoyed by her daughter's insubordinate attitude. She approaches things her way, Fiona's way, all the time. They're playing games, both varying in degrees of seriousness. Whether it's parenthood or selfishness, Mrs. Coyne has been silently battling her daughter for years in an attempt to make her realize her talent, but clearly, she's keen on doing other things, things of which she has no idea.

Parenthood is a delicate time. When a woman finds that she has conceived, the milestone is of it's own rapport. When Mrs. Coyne found out she was having twins, she was elated and felt blessed that her womb could support multiple lives. She always wanted kids, two was the perfect number, and was going to receive everything she ever wanted in one pregnancy. She had plans for them and believed that this was the perfect package, having a boy and a girl, because she could graft two different lives and get everything done at the same time. With parenthood, mothers adopt the preliminary sense of Social Immortality, but before all that, they begin vicariously living through their children. Her plan was not to make the children dogma spouting agents. Her plan, rather, was to make them fit a mold, which she chose.

When Declan refused to breast feed for the first few days of his life, that was enough of a clue for Mrs. Coyne to invest the majority of her hope in Fiona instead, who mostly excelled when it came to the arts. The talent for such activities were innate in her while Declan flourished in school and sports. The paradox that presents itself exists because Fiona, though above average when it comes to school, doesn't take her true potential in piano to heart. The Coyne's have an old world sense of entertainment: Friday dinner parties, they frequently attend gallery openings, and when time allows it, they go to the opera and symphony concerts. Classical music flows out of Fiona, yet she doesn't embrace it as fully as she could. It's almost a joke to her and she has her fun and sets it aside. That too is a way of pissing away one's talent, ridiculing it.

"Fiona, darling, could you stop playing for a little while?" At the table, Mrs. Coyne rubs her temples– an attempt to rub away the approaching headache– and gets up to get the aspirin. "I'm a little busy here." Fiona rolls her eyes as if the resolute tone of her mother's voice doesn't register. _They must think I'm stupid_, she thinks, sauntering off upstairs.

"Yes. Of course. I'm sorry." She says, but she doesn't mean it

*

Fiona's hit a growth spurt. The innate qualities that have been awarded to her have masked her similarities to Declan. She too is growing into her own fast talking smarminess, and their mother almost scoffs at the part of her that tries to convince herself that it was something that was only unique to her son.

"But that's a lie", screams the frontal lobe, with the trace of a high pitched cackle. "Yeah," the Temporal Lobe chimes in, "They're twins. They have the same DNA, fraternal or not."

Fiona's carefree approach to things her mother sees as important afflicts her with a certain small amounts of pain and it's wildly overdramatized pains that she claims wrack her body when in reality, it's only her pride. The games of selfishness ir not as it seems, but that's all beside the point for parents. Fiona is certain that it doesn't matter whether she's playing "Name That Tune" or "Piss Your Life Away"; both are uninteresting unless there is a partner with to whom to play. There are many other activities other than Tango that involve at the very least two participants.

The combative games these women play are also beside the point because there's always a bigger picture, a larger more inclusive game that involves the construction of prophetic schemas and anticipating the other person's move, but that doesn't make it Chess. The name of the game is Association and it more or less has very few rules and is also similar in practice to the idea of Deductive Logic. In Deductive Logic, one is presented with the most universal concepts and then widdles them down to a specific idea or in this case association. When Mrs. Coyne might associate with her daughter's innate abilities(the universal concept- raw talent) can be linked to what she would like to associate as fame and success(concert pianist). Meanwhile, Fiona associates music with relaxation and fun because if she were to ever start taking it as seriously as her mother would like her to, she would in fact be on the fast track to success. On the fast track to success while traveling a road that would someday lead to her completely despise music

There may be a pain in mother's heart because she feels she's being rejected in some round about way by her daughter, but Fiona knows it has to happen this way, these hurt feelings, because somebody's got to learn that we can't always get what we want even if it's from your child. Nature, social nature, makes it so, and who is she to tinker with the inner workings of Gaea herself?

*

Declan's body is seizing. He stands poking his bellybutton in the steamed soaked mirror of the bathroom as he intensely stares at himself. His pores are open, like gaping holes, and he can feel the draft, wafting at his feet, traveling up the hairs on his legs, and stinging the hairs into straight stalky shafts. He shivers again and the towel falls.

Saturday afternoon may seem like an odd time to take a shower, but it becomes a habit of Declan's whenever he needs to distance himself from his family. Not like they're over intrusive, save for Fiona. They're averagely busy with whatever, and whenever one of them needs the other, they barge into each other's space, gather what is needed and go on their ways. Simple. The bathroom is the one place in which they won't arbitrarily enter. Seeking the cold echoing safety of the bathroom is a subconscious habit..

He walks out of the bathroom and across the hall to this room, but stop a little shy of the door. His body shivers again at the unnecessary volume of Fiona's music. She's been on this synthpop, electronica junk since the summer and he's not sure if it's something she actually likes or if it's some cry for attention. Either way, it bothers him because she blares it loud enough for the walls to quake. With his foot, he pushes open the door with his foot and she looks up from her current literature adventure.

"Oh good. That "Enter without knocking" sign I put up is clearly legible," she drawls.

"Could you turn down your music, please? I have a headache." Without waiting for consent or dissent, he turns and walks to his room.

"What's with everybody today?"

The bed springs creak as Declan adds his weight to the pile and he closes his eyes, shamefully reliving last night in his mind. It's been a silent line. Holly J was kind enough to hand him a tissue after he had finished and her eyes stayed and fixated on him. It wasn't fascination that graced them, it wasn't shock, it wasn't admiration, but how could she have any? Maybe it was a mix of things, and she just taken off guard. He had wanted to talk to explain, but as soon as he worked up enough courage to open his mouth, her phone rang, almost too perfectly, because it offered her an excuse to get up and go out before it became too unbearably awkward. He should have prefaced.

*

Fiona slinks out of her room and down to the stairs to the no longer occupied kitchen. As she walks past the island, she grabs an apple and turns the stove on for tea then hoists herself up on the counter and waits for it to boil. Sometime later, she returns back upstairs and enters Declan's room without announcing her arrival and thrusts the cup of tea out before her brother, who's laying flat on his back with his eyes closed. She clears her throat and he opens one eye and glares up at the cup, then at her, and finally back at the teacup with a raised eyebrow as if it's some foreign object.

"For you."

"Tea?" He closes his eyes once more and resettles himself.

"One must tire of drinking coffee every now and then." He shrugs weakly. Fiona scowls down at him. She normally doesn't try this hard to comfort anybody even her own brother. His mood has plummeted and she actually cares because it be something serious like depression or something. For right now, she's setting her mission aside to be there, but she's also keeping in mind that it's time like these that get banked and then weighed. So when he wants to tell her something. Anything...

She sets the cup down on the side table and climbs into bed with him and looks on as he meditates or thinks or maybe falls off to sleep, she's unsure, still she occupies herself by poking at the muscles clenching on his abdomen the casually runs a finger over the hairy trail that dips suggestively down below his towel. This is a test.

"What are you doing?"

"What's that game we used to play? It was like... you'd touch some part of the other person's body and see if it made them uncomfortable or awkward. Yeah! That was it, awkward."

"What's your point?"

"Do you feel awkward yet?" She effortlessly pokes her finger under the makeshift waist, intending to touch him below, as a joke of course, but he grabs her hand with great force, pushing it away and sits up, looking at her.

"Stop it, Fi. I'm not in the mood."

"Soorrry," she says, a little sing-songy and scoots over a little bit with her arms folded.

This is the hard part about being a twin. The world doesn't exist for anybody specifically, yet the universe controls everything. Religious dogma preaches that a supreme being created the all and the end of everything. Science claims it's origin is biological drive, that's all fine, but without God or science, Declan manages to believe in his own sense of cosmic intervention. The world, the world isn't some gift or award. We did nothing for it and it does nothing for us, but the air about it– the Force . The Force is constantly pushing pairs together and in some cases, Western culture: absolutes. Fiona's form of interaction with her brother, like the many layers of his tone, is multitudinous. She can't read him as much as he can't read her, but the only difference that stems from this fact is that this failure to communicate worries Declan while Fiona sees it as some joke.

In the world of sex and relationships, Declan has yet to cross a line with his sister, but he worries because one day, he thinks he actually might. The act of it doesn't worry him as much as destiny does. His deepest wish is to break out of that awkward world of twindom, and be his own person. Over the years, they have been able to break the mold, but every once in a while, they're pulled back together and the sense of interaction, at times after puberty, sometimes mentally strikes an improper chord for Declan, and it leaves him wondering if it's some cosmic game.

"Get out." She stares at him, then cocks her head to the side.

"As you wish." With that, she gets up, stirring herself into action, but almost as soon as she does that, her grabs her wrist and pulls her back down.

"I have a problem, Fi." He gets up instead, crossing to the dresser and pulls out a pair of boxers. He collects his thoughts as he nonchalantly drops the towel and puts then on.

"What have you done," she replies, and if one reads her tone the right way, she says it almost as if she's perking up. With a sigh, he pulls a T-shirt over her head and then goes to the closet for a pair of jeans.

"I... might have shown myself to Holly J."

"... Go on..." She already knows where this is going. He rolls his eyes a little then falls silent. "Come on, brother. You'll have to speak blatantly if you want that I should be of some assistance," she says resolutely which causes him to sort of glare at her, but he drops it quickly; she must always twist his arm.

"I masturbated in front of her."

"Masturbated how? Pants down in all your glory, masturbation, or was it that masterfully crafter doublespeak thing you do that really acts as a means of stroking your ego, masturbation?" She watches him nodding his head.

"The aforementioned, pants down in all my– or not– glory." Declan plops back onto the bed, this time resting his head in his twin sister's lap, and she immediately consoles him physically, but mentally she's elsewhere. As she thinks of something to say, she lightly grazes his cheek with her thumb while staring off into a corner.

"The predicament?" She is unable to segway.

"Well, I just told you..." He closes his eyes for a second, then reopens them, remembering something else. "Ah yes... she hasn't called. Not a text, and this worries me because we never really talked about it. She kind of had to leave as soon as I– "

"Ejaculated."

"I was gonna put it in other words... but, yes." Sitting up, he switches to a better position in order to face her. "What should I do?"

"Declan... Really," she says with a small smile.

"Really what?"

"I think the proper question you should be asking yourself is if Holly J is right... _the_ right person to be worrying about." This stops him, and he just blinks back, then suddenly, his eyes droop and he sort of laughs a little bit.

"I think you should get out." He gets up and motions to the door, very aware of _her_ doublespeak. Everything is a fucking game to her. As before, she doesn't fight him and gets up to exit.

"As you wish."


	4. Forecast Fascist Future

Hello readers! I'm sorry that I've been absent lately. When I originally started this story, I was in the process of finishing up my senior year and business. But the big culprit in my kind of abandoning the story was college applications and essays. I applied to School of the Art Institute of Chicago's writing program, so I was in the tizzy trying to write _original_ stories, so naturally, this story had to stop for a while. Thankfully, I did get accepted but financial aid didn't shell out so, I'm currently writing to you from my dorm at Saint Mary's College in Southbend. I'm moved in an feeling inspired by this new college life. I was happy to see that people were still reading this story, so for you guys out there, I will continue because to not continue would just be selfish= dick move. Haha

Party's Crashing Us

Holly J. and Declan are better than ever. How this came to be is a complete mystery to Fiona. Out of spite, maybe, her brother put his pride aside to contact her just to rub her the wrong way... Or, he called her anyway because that's the most logical thing to do, explained himself, and there they resumed because he really might actually like her. Fiona refuses to believe that as she folds a pillow over her ears to muffle out their laughter in the kitchen. Her Ipod's dead, otherwise she would have settled for it instead. It doesn't matter that it's been her social vice in recent weeks. She'll put it on during homeroom, she'll recreationally listen at home, and it she could, she'd probably surgically attach it to her body, but she knows how fruitless it is thinking that way.

"Fi." She looks up from her vantage point on the couch at the loving couple before her. "They're feting Bertolucci at the cinema downtown this weekend. Tonight's feature is _Stealing Beauty_." She sits up now, blinking once. "Liv Tyler. Come on, you love her."

"And we're getting pizza after," Holly J. chimes in as if that should be the basis for her finally decision, as if every fun thing in the world depended on the prospects of pizza. She rolls her eyes. _Is that the only reason why people socialize?_ As much as she'd like to hang out with her brother- even in ill company- the last note offer of pizza completely devalues the entire evening in a second; She fucking hates pizza. In this moment, Fiona is reminded of a story she read during the family's stint in Morocco. _The Cask of Amontillado_. This version was in Italian. At the end, the Jester is barred to a niche thanks to an inconvenient brick door, left to suffocate in the dark and die by the unforgiving, unrelenting hand of his murderer, Montresor. If the social climax of every outing with other people can be measured in terms of pizza or no pizza, then she'd kindly meet the same fate. A smarmy smile slinks across her lips, as she pretends to think over their invitation some more. Being a teenager is insufferable.

Holly J. and Declan both watch her, waiting until finally she emerges from her head. Their eyes follow as she rises.

"No thanks," she says, really only addressing her brother, then goes on in Latin, "Nemo me impune lacessit."(No one attacks me with impunity). The reference completely flies over Holly J.'s head while Declan takes a second to recognize it. He cocks his head to the side and narrows his eyelids as he looks over in the corner, trying to stir from the sides of his brain. When he comes recognize the allusion, he holds his head upright and eyes her sharply for only a moment.

"Fi," Declan warns in a low, slow voice, but she's out of the room before he can finish.

"What did she say?"

"It's unimportant. She's being catty, is all." They sit on the couch. "As I'm sure you've probably inferred by her tone." He lays an arms across Holly J.'s shoulders. Silence is the one thing a couple should be able to stand. The comforting lull of silence measures the most about their relationship. If Man and Woman can exist serenely in silence, they've got some chance. But if said silence is an uneasy and weighted one, then they better keep talking. Declan's show served a deeper purpose than he thinks. The lesson, however, never became remotely clear until the very end. Holly J. and Declan are busy people. The moment they couldn't take to really connect at times only made their relationship stronger. The hardest part is far from over with it and he was having some balance issues. He doesn't want to seem cold like stone, but he also doesn't want to look to her as some beacon. Having been caught up in his own impulsive hysteria made him ignorant of the official fact: He has a girlfriend. The calm seas were daunting, but his voyeuristic display released static.

When they finally spoke, he explained to her in broken terms his fragmented state of mind. With all that, he was finally able to look at her, and quickly got back to where they were but stronger. Now the silence is something they've come to appreciate. Holly J. is delicate once you get around her spiky ego. You have to get around the static in order to see true beauty, true kindness, true anything actually. Either way, Declan could look at her all day.

"You know something? We look very sexy together."

"Thank you. I wasn't aware of thing," she replies going over to the bookshelf.

"Really?"

"Kidding." He should have figured that much from her tone, but it's such a small thing over which to beat himself up. There's an inner peace one assumes while watching others so much so that the little mistakes float to the bottom of the priority list. The spiky ego, having been navigated successfully enough, presents something new for Declan: a deeper appreciation for life... _That's new._ "You guys have a lot of books."

"Yeah, we're all readers in this family." She runs an index fingers along the spines of an entire row, unaware of how intently Declan watches her. He's trying to transpose the spines of the book with his back. "My mom really likes Kafka and Cocteau. They're her literary idols." He gets up and joins her by the shelf and looks for the perfect book from which to share an excerpt. Finding nothing, he shrugs with a small smile, trying to pick one, but accepts defeat—they're all so good—and returns to his seat. "Mom furtively studed 17th century French literature at the Sorbonne and originally aspired to write novels and stuff... But one summer in Florence, she met my father. The rest is history," he says again with another shrug and gestures with open hands, brandishing is body to indicate their marriage and having children.

"Really?"

"Oh yes, but she got so busy, you know, marrying a diplomat and all. Time never allowed it when Fi and I were little. I think she's gearing up. I can tell by the way she sort of sits down to write every once in a while. Like, it's more and more everyday." He pauses, wondering if his next statement would be in character. "I'm happy for her. I'm happy to see that." He closes one eyes and give his head a quick shake before smiling; accepting the truth.

This is the kind of honesty Holly J. loves to hear: his soul speaking freely for once. Without any desire, knowledge or intent to seduce. He's speaking to her, and himself, in a way that could really make other people think more of him. Something in Declan's demeanor changes when he talks like this. These observations are only ever brought out during moments such as these, in the peaceful silence. She likes to joke around with him by saying some of his social fouls are brought on by a bad game of Association. What his wealthy lifestyle demands has built many, cold momentary homes for him. In some ways, they've denied him a foundation. Attachment is a form of foundation, security, so he satisfies his needs then makes clean breaks, always anticipating the next move so he won't have to miss anyone or be hurt. He's beautifully broken.

If only it were that simple. If people could be fixed the way the machines or material objects are made to work correctly again, if only emotions were interchangeable parts… Her thoughts normally stop here because she's suggesting that more is amiss than what truly is. She wants to give him the benefit of the doubt. She really could go on about it, maybe one day with him, but his reaction might be explosive. She' d like to avoid that, but not forever. The quandary will be endless that way...

Like Fiona's sessions of eavesdropping. She suspects that the newly strengthened bond between her brother and his leading lady could do the most good for her ears in recompense for the damage their sickening show has already done to her stomach. There's something offensive about the way they carelessly meander from topic to topic. It's a folie à deux , listening to them talk and it offends Fiona to hear how blatantly they ignore the artful mechanisms of making conventional conversation.

She's also irate about a lot of things, and this trait- though completely social in form- says equally a lot about her. For a seventeen year old, she truly is a creature of habit. Some things are better left to the imagination. A messy desk can't defend its owner because the connotation of the hysteria makes a blatant assumption to the rest of the world. But if there's a way to alter the way the world perceives owner, a way to show their ease of dominating the clutter, then there's a way to make people see anything. Trust is key. She could get her brother to quit Holly J. cold turkey… It just might take some time. In her friendless boredom, Fiona even uses herself as a test subject: take a trip to her room and inspect the entirely immaculate chamber in which she herself sometimes acts as if she's a guest. Everything is orderly right down to the books, CDs, and even the innumerable clothes in her closet. On the outside, things seem airy and lite thanks to the faint scent of lavender pouches she keeps in her drawers, but if one really knew Fiona – and nobody really knows Fiona- one would sense on some level that they're being crushed by the weight of some unknown force. If she can continue to keep the world thinking one thing about her, then she can do control everything.

It's clear some people enjoy watching, being voyeurs, but Fiona believes that sight is completely unnecessary. He interactive sport of choice is eavesdropping because she's so good at it. More often than not, she's presented with half the information, and from there, she must masterfully imagine and juxtapose the other half. It might sound like a guessing game, but that couldn't be farther from the truth.

"Did you know that there was only one Dali piece at MoMa?" Declan clears his throat. "I was stunned" Fiona's eyes shrink into little slits because she's annoyed by Declan's loose habit of tongue. The sharing of feelings makes her jealous especially since he's been keeping her out. Conversation is a two way street. Holly J. simply cannot keep up.

"Well, we better go."

"Okay, let me go tell Fi that we're leaving. It'll be quick."

"Alright." She hears them stir and quickly, she dashes up the stairs- on the lightest toe- to her room, and situates herself on the bed. Laying a book open on her stomach, she them closes her eyes just in time before her brother enters. The bed sinks when he sits.

"Fi... Hey, we're gonna go now." He lightly wriggles her by the wrist and she opens one eyes, feigning the vague confusion one often experiences upon emerging out of a deep, dreamlike sleep. He smiles down at her and slowly shakes his head; a trick he knows all too well. She deserves an Oscar and a pass for this one. "We're heading out to the movie now. Last chance to change your rude, little mind." She rubs an eye and sits up against the pillows.

"As I recall, brother, we have the same DNA. So, your mind is as rude and as little as mine." With this, she folds her hands over her stomachs and closes her eyes once again. He rolls his eyes at her childish behavior.

"I don't know why you're mad. Listen, I promise we'll hang out when I get back." He's offering her all her know that will temper her for now, but sadly it seems like she isn't even listening. "Fine. Be that way." Declan rises, rolling his eyes once more and as he makes his way to the stairs, his mother stops him by grabbing the crook of his arm.

"Honey, you'll need to be home by ten tonight."

"Mom, they're playing Bertolucci's best tonight," he says dismissing her, but she hangs on.

"Just come home tonight on time. Please."

"In France, teenagers make a night out of going to the movies. They're not home until after midnight. On top of everything else, it's _Bertolucci_," he says dismissively.

"Declan, I don't care. Be home by ten," his mother says with raging finality and releases him. Declan looks over his shoulder at his mother as he descends the stairs, wondering what the big deal is all the sudden. He's learning more and more each day that everyone in life can't be pleased. His mother, an emotion hypochondriac and his sister, the green eyed monster will not contend with his mission to enjoy a movie tonight.


End file.
